Tender Curiosities
by ChidoriQueen
Summary: They had laughed boisterously at the lovey-dovey lament of Romeo and Juliet, such stupid, stupid, stupid sacrifice for petty love- but was it really all that different? Semi-unrequited Franz/Albert, one-shot. Spoilers.


"_Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs." _

_-William Shakespeare_

* * *

Franz lets out a hacking cough, blood trickling mercilessly down his jaw _(oh god, it's everywhere- blood leaks out of a wound in his abdomen, blood, blood, blood stirring inside of his shattered body), _rain drip-dripping through a crevice in the armor and painting his sweaty forehead with a glossy sheen.

_Happy, happy, happy. Think happy, Franz._

Oh, but it hurts, it hurts, it hurts- but anything for him. Anything for his stupidly adorable and absurdly naive and daydreaming and always trusting best friend.

_Albert sleeps over at his house one night, sending echoes of laughter halls through the looming, cold halls. He peers at oriental vases with wide-eyed curiosity, gulps down sugary juice and homemade biscuits; practically tears open the dusty curtains and bangs on an out-of-tune, decrepit piano._

_Striped pajamas hanging loosely off his scrawny frame, he scampers onto Franz's bed, giggling infectiously as he buries his face in the pillow, legs splayed messily across the silk covers. _

_He turns his head slightly to face his friend, who is still standing in the doorway, unable to wipe the sheepish smile off his face. "Your pillow is so hard. Why is it so hard?"_

"_Princess Albert- so hard to please," Franz teases. "Anyways- that's just how I like it. You can't always get what you want, Albert."_

"_Hm...I guess so," he admits reluctantly, pouting slightly. His cheeks are flushed, hair mussed- but the rugged look suits him, Franz notes. Totally the opposite of the spoiled, aristocratic brat he usually was._

_But he was _his_ spoiled, aristocratic brat- and that was all that mattered in the end._

* * *

The image fades away into oblivion. Franz manages a weak smile but the pain returns- relentless flames licking at his insides, wrapping thick cords around his neck until he can barely breath. Another- he needs another one, just like his grandfather needed cigarettes, closing his eyes and biting his lips until they bleed and pressing his nail into his palms- anything to erase the hurt, even if just for a little while.

_Franz and Albert sit cross-legged in a field, basking in the mid-morning sunshine and resilient blue skies. They lean back on their palms, snacking on tiny-sandwiches, silent so as not to break the seemingly impenetrable peace._

_Franz's eyes lock idly on a tiny clump of lilac wildflowers and golden dandelions. He reaches for them, gently plucking them out of the ground and nimbly twisting their stems together. Albert watches in hungry fascination as fingers weave in and out, green-brown interlocking with paper-thin petals._

_A few moments later, a tiny, perfect wreath sits in Franz's palm. He gazes it at fondly, before leaning forward and placing it atop Albert's breeze-tousled head. In a rush of impulsiveness, he gives the boy's cheek a shy, chaste kiss, sun-kissed skin pressing against his cracked lips._

_It's imperfect, so tangibly _real-_ two boys and peace and quiet and tiny sandwiches._

_Albert's wrinkles his nose, pulling away. "We're too old for that, Franz."_

"_I guess so." Franz shrugs nonchalantly. _I love you so much, Albert.

* * *

Hurt, hurt, hurt. Rain, rain, rain. White spots dance teasingly in front of his eyes. _Go away_, he thinks irritably. _You're not taking him away from me. Not ever again._

He breathes in and out, in and out, inhales the pain and suffering and loss._ Albert, Albert. It was for you. It was all for you. You can't die, Albert. You won't die._

The voice of an angel calls for him. Footsteps slosh hurriedly in the mud and a teary face peers through the hollow metal, dainty hand pressed to a pert mouth. It's small, it's shaking, and frightened- all Franz wants to do is squeeze it and kiss it and make it all go away. He curses his helplessness, lying in a puddle of sweat and rain and blood.

_This is all I can do for you now, Albert._

Hands shake his shoulders roughly, hands strip scraps of cloth from a rain-soaked shirt and wrap them tenderly around his broken chest. Crimson roses bloom in patches across the linen. It scares Franz, dying and all- never in his life had he never imagined it this way.

But this is okay. This is okay.

Gentle hands cover him in layer and layers of broken hope. Gentle hands gingerly brush their fingers against his cheek.

Albert is crying. Screaming even. His face is a mask of terror, beautiful chaos.

Tears drip onto Franz's face as Albert throws his arms around him, breath uneven, heaving with his endless sobs. Franz's matted hair presses against his warm, beating chest- those arms feel strong and invincible, cozy and honeysuckle-scented.

The spoiled aristocrat sure grew up, he thinks humorlessly.

_Maybe change isn't such a bad thing._

Franz closes his eyes. He tucks the precious moment away, close to his broken, quietly fading heart. It's funnily tragic, somehow. They had laughed boisterously at the lovey-dovey lament of _Romeo and Juliet_, such stupid, stupid, _stupid _sacrifice for petty love- but was it really all that different?

Franz d'Epinay dies without regrets, a smile forever painted on his marred lips.


End file.
